


The Matter of Malavai Quinn

by KonohanaShuffle



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25458934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KonohanaShuffle/pseuds/KonohanaShuffle
Summary: A lot of people hate Malavai Quinn. A lot of people REALLY hate Malavai Quinn. I ... am not one of them! He's probably my favorite Sith Warrior companion. That said, actions have consequences.My boyfriend's Warrior and my Inquisitor (they roll together) sort through what happens after a particular event in the game. ..... Spoilers for the Sith Warrior storyline????
Kudos: 12





	The Matter of Malavai Quinn

The silence following the confrontation is immense. Defeated machines spark and crackle, each pop a gunshot. The captain's wet, ragged breathing saws through the air.

Soreyn doesn't move, doesn't speak. His muscles tighten, tremble, hands clench and unclench on saber hilts in abortive motion. The blades, as yet unsheathed, cast a yellow light on Malavai Quinn's pale features.

His gaze lifts. Asking no question. Resigned to the outcome.

Soreyn's fist clenches one more time, with purpose, and the blade begins to lift, arrested when a slim, blue hand settles against his wrist.

He turns his gaze to Njali, sears her with it, and meets only patient cool in her vivid lavendar eyes.

"It's unwise to waste your resources," she murmurs.

Her gaze is on Quinn, Quinn's suddenly, beseechingly, on her. This is unlooked-for. Unwanted.

"A _traitor_ is not a _resource_." A snarl bubbles in Soreyn's throat. His arm twitches, wrenches.

Her hand tightens.

"Quinn?"

A shudder runs down his frame, but his eyes are on Soreyn's again. "My life is yours to spend, my lord." His voice rasps. He stirs from his wounded crouch and kneels, beseeching again.

"Spend it well," Njali suggests.

The snarl makes a rumbling return, and his arm tenses. Silence hangs again, broken by the pop, sizzle, whirr of still-dying mechanicals.

The lightsaber blades die in a wash of golden light. His hands drop to his sides, still tight around their hilts, but he doesn't move.

Njali's gaze darts to his face, down again.

"Can you walk?" she asks of Quinn.

He nods.

"Return to the ship," she says. Her hand is still firmly on Soreyn. "And from there to your quarters. Do not speak of this."

He gets to his feet, a slow and stumbling process, but he's ramrod straight once he's finished, and she's sure it costs him. His eyes are on her again, ghosts haunting his features.

"My lord," he whispers, but her hand is up before the second syllable exits his mouth, slap ringing through the cavernous room.

"Do _not_ speak to me." 

This time it's her voice that's a snarl.

\--

To his credit, he doesn't speak to her.

He doesn't even look at her.

He barely looks at Soreyn, gaze fixing distantly at a point somewhere over the Sith's right shoulder when he's addressed, which is rarely.

\--

They don't speak of it, but the shift is hardly subtle.

The mood aboard the ship is, in a word, brittle.

Even Vette stays out of sight.

But it's Pierce who pins Njali in the mess, a predator casually slouched in the doorway, watching her brew tea. He doesn't move at her purposeful approach, and she considers the merits of bowling him over with a well-placed nudge of the Force.

Instead she stops, eyebrows lifting.

"Something happened," he says without preamble. "With him."

One eyebrow arches a notch higher.

"Never seen either of them like this." His brow furrows. 

She stares at him. Pierce is worried. His veneer of professionalism, always thin, is frayed. Her gaze drops to the mug in her hands.

"It's not mine to tell," she says, crisp and cool, and he shifts. Looms larger in the doorway. She stops herself from rolling her eyes. 

"Ask one of them if you must," she presses the point, and she begins walking forward again.

This time he slinks -- as much as a man his size can slink -- out of her way.

\--

Soreyn is in his room, lounging half-dressed on his bed. Waiting for her. She sets the tea down next to him -- he's unlikely to drink it -- and paces to the other side, shedding shoes and heavy skirts as she goes.

He watches, she knows it, with a dull burn of interest.

But that's not why she's here.

She folds herself onto the bed, effortlessly near him, and nestles herself into the heat of his body. The returned weight of his own is thoughtless, automatic, nevertheless comforting. 

He isn't watching her now.

"You should have let me kill him." He's said it more than once.

"No." She rarely says anything more than that. This time, she does. "Would you have me let you strike off your right arm, as well?"

He stirs at this. His entire body goes tense, and his eyes are on her, hollow and blazing.

"He is _nothing_ \--"

She squeezes into the hollow of his throat, sets her teeth to his skin and nips there, cutting him short. His throat bobs once, but he doesn't speak.

"You value him," she says softly. "You _like_ him." His body tenses as she presses her lips to his skin. "His betrayal stings."

More than stings. Burns. Sears.

He grips her arms as if to throw her aside, jerks himself away from her mouth. "I do not need you to tell me how I feel." The snarl is back, never far these days.

She watches him, waits, until his grip slackens and his body droops once more against hers. His eyes still burn, but they burn into a distant point, far from her, far from the confines of the room, the ship.

"No," she says. His pulse flutters under her lips. "You don't."

He breathes. His pulse slows. Her arms slip around him.

"I do not enjoy seeing you in pain," she says.

He closes his eyes. This time he doesn't open them again.


End file.
